


On My Honor

by gogirl212



Series: The Huguenot Rebellions [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Oaths & Vows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9635501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: After a mission goes awry, Athos, Porthos and Aramis face some hard truths.  Set pre-series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set pre-series. It follows my story “Don’t Let Go” but it is not necessary to have read that. Thanks to Issai for the plot idea and her lovely beta-reading skills. I still make tons of mistakes.

A/N: Set pre-series. It follows my story “Don’t Let Go” but it is not necessary to have read that.

\--One--

Athos was growing as impatient as the horse stamping and snorting beneath him. Rarely did he find himself fidgety just before a battle. His father had ingrained in him a soldier’s discipline from his earliest years and keeping a settled and focused mind was something that happened instinctively now, he rarely had to force himself to concentrate. 

The sun had risen long ago and the regiment had expected to engage the Huguenots again just after first light. Maybe they had saddled up too early Athos considered as he glanced along the string of men, also on horseback, lining the ridge. Clouds of steam rose from the breath of both men and beasts in the early March air. Snow was falling.

Fighting the day before had gone well. They’d taken out two small cannon positions on the rise to their right, and all that was left was the heavy artillery positioned directly across the battlefield from their own. Losses had been minimal on the battlefield, the enemy taking far more damage than they had. It was surprising as the Huguenots were typically a fierce group, but this battalion looked ragged and with continual pressure from the musketeers they had not had a chance to regroup at one of their strongholds. Even now they were effectively cut off from any aid from their compatriots. If the tide of battle turned in the same way today, it would be a rout. Which was fine by Athos. Three months of chasing Huguenots was enough. Even if the wine from nearby Bordeaux was exceptional, he missed Paris.

To his right, Porthos was quietly sharing a story of last night’s exploits at the camp with Aramis. Weeks in canvass tents during a cold, muddy winter had done nothing to quench the large musketeer’s spirits. In fact, he was in his element in a situation where the few things to do in the evening included card games and outrageous wagers. Athos couldn’t make out what they were saying but he caught a deep rumble from Porthos, punctuated by Aramis’s lighter laughter. These two could be standing at the mouth of hell and still find something to laugh about. Athos felt the slight smile growing on his lips as he observed the interaction between his two companions. They had all been friends before this campaign to southwestern France, but weeks of intense fighting together had drawn them closer than any of them had anticipated. Or he had wanted, if Athos was honest with himself. 

They had quickly proved themselves a lethal combination in battle as their natural strengths complemented each other. Time and time again they found themselves fighting side by side, watching each other’s backs, risking their own lives to keep each other safe. They almost lost Aramis about four weeks into the campaign and it had shaken Athos to his core. As he and Porthos executed a rescue, Athos had realized that something had shifted in his relationship to these men. That night, with Aramis safely sleeping in their tent, recovering from what was luckily only bumps, bruises and a broken arm, Athos knew he had more than friends -- he had family. 

To aid Aramis in regaining his flexibility, they started sparring together on days when they were not fighting. Even after he was fully healed, they continued, honing innate rhythms into an intuitive, cohesive fighting unit. The rest of the regiment noticed their intensity and the havoc they could wreak on a battlefield. Captain Treville noticed their loyalty to each other, often assigning them together under Athos’s command for courier runs or prisoner transfers. At night, they drank together. Or Porthos played cards while Athos and Aramis talked philosophy and watched his back. On nights in town, they started tavern brawls and rescued Aramis from less perilous situations involving irate farmers with beautiful daughters. The Inseparables the regiment called them. Athos had to admit that he liked it.

Athos was considering riding up the line to check on the rest of the men, just to give himself something to do, when he caught sight of three riders approaching across the battlefield. While still too far away to see their faces, Athos recognized Treville at the head of the company. Years with the man made his stance astride a horse was as distinctive as his signature on a page. The other clue was the white banner held by one of the men behind him. Treville had gone earlier to parley with the captain of the Huguenots, he was the real target of their expedition. The King wanted the rebel leader brought to heel and in frustration had finally sent his own personal guard to see to it. Athos hoped Treville was returning with news that might resolve this and get them back to Paris all the sooner.

The men split off, the two behind Treville moving to join their ranks and the Captain turning his horse toward where he knew his Lieutenant to be stationed. Athos coaxed his horse forward slightly as Treville made his way up the ridge. Aramis and Porthos dropped their conversation and shifted to flank him on either side.

“He will not surrender,” Treville said by way of greeting, “Not even to save his men.”

“No honor,” Athos said flatly. He heard Aramis exhale audibly behind him and Porthos give a small grunt. They might all find a thrill battle, but they did not like to needlessly take men’s lives.

“Regardless,” Treville said, “this ends today. The only real threat they have is that heavy cannon on the hill. Take that out, and we can end this quickly.”

“I’ll take a contingent,” Athos answered.

“Shift toward the right of the battlefield and get around their flank,” Treville advised, “I noticed the bulwarks to that side were incomplete when I was in their camp. I think we must have hit them with our light cannon yesterday.”

“Please try not to hit them again,” Athos said, a slight smile playing across his face.

“I’ll shift the cannon fire to center and left,” Treville promised, “and draw as many forces as I can from your attack direction. Take a party of five.”

“We only need three,” Athos assumed his neutral tone made his comment a statement of fact, not implied criticism.

“Indulge me,” Treville responded with a small smile before kicking up his horse to ride toward the command tent toward the center of the line.

Athos swung his horse around to face his men. Aramis was already priming the fuse of his long musket, preparing for what he knew would be his role in the attack. Porthos gave him a bright grin, eager to get moving. Athos looked past them, considering the men near him.

“Sury. Roussin. With me,” Athos called out. Two musketeers moved forward, forming their small contingent. “We’re going to take out the artillery. We’ll need to outflank them on the field and get to the damaged barricade on the right. Aramis, make sure no one fires that cannon. The rest of us will bring it down.” Athos whirled his horse and took off toward the far edge of the field, confident the four men were right behind him.

\--Two--

The battle was well underway by the time the band of five musketeers made their way up the side of the hill and to the edge of the damaged bulwarks. They had dodged most of the soldiers in their path, avoiding drawing attention to themselves as they worked to outflank the enemy troops. The cannon fire was deafening, even up on the ridge, making communication between them difficult. Still, they were a well-trained unit and Athos relied on hand signals to get them all in position. 

Aramis found a relatively covered spot from which to fire his long rifle and once the other men were ready his first shot brought down the commander of the artillery squad. As the artillery group was thrown in disarray, Athos led his men through the broken bulwark and toward the heavy cannon. The Huguenots were not expecting an attack from behind their line and they scrambled to face the oncoming threat while trying to maintain the front line. Athos and his contingent fought viciously with a single-minded focus of reaching the cannon while Aramis kept picking off the men trying to fire the artillery as quickly as he could load his musket. 

The group made it to the heavy cannon, but one of the Huguenot lieutenants realized their intent and rallied his men to take out the invading squad. Porthos managed to get to the big gun, but Athos, Sury and Roussin met the attacking force and fought intensely to keep them from overwhelming him. Athos took down one attacker with a slice across the midsection and spared a glance to see how Porthos fared. He was fighting without a sword, using his brute strength to grab an enemy soldier and simply hurtle him down the stoneworks the Huguenots had built up at the base of the cannon. As Porthos reached for the next man, another approached him from behind, a club raised above his head and ready to strike. Athos called out, but over the din of battle Porthos couldn’t hear him. Athos struggled to make his way up the stoneworks but the man with the club suddenly stiffened, a red stain blossoming across his chest as he slowly crumpled to the ground. Aramis, as always, was watching over them.

Athos had little time to consider further as he was simultaneously engaged by the Huguenot lieutenant and another soldier. Athos typically considered two opponents manageable and he had the higher ground, but he lost his footing on the uneven surface and fell hard onto his back. Lying against the slope of the stoneworks he managed to parry a strike from the soldier with his main gauche, but a stab from the captain got past his guard and pierced his right bicep with a burning jab. Athos howled as his sword dropped from his fingers and swung his left hand with the main gauche across his body to slash at the lieutenant's wrist. The lieutenant staggered back and fell to the ground, screaming in pain as blood poured profusely from his arm. Athos turned his attention back to the soldier on his left in time to see Sury shove his rapier through the man’s thigh. 

Athos managed to get his feet under him and pick up his fallen rapier. His right arm throbbed. He switched his weapons, main gauche to the right, rapier to the left. He was almost as good with either hand, which made him better than most even left-handed. Athos fended off two more attackers and then his attention was caught by a creaking sound from above him. The heavy cannon was shifting, its long barrel swinging downward. The stonework wall beside them started to shift as the weight of the cannon started to overbalance it.  
“Move!” Athos bellowed, “It’s coming down!” Men started scrambling as the stones supporting the cannon shifted and the heavy gun started sliding toward them. It fell with a crash amid the rubble of the stones that had been holding it up. As the dust cleared, Athos looked up to see Porthos, covered in sweat and grime, standing on top of what was left of the earthen mound that had held the canon, laughing like a madman at the destruction he had caused.

Musketeers started pouring in from the space in the forward bulwark that the cannon had occupied. The Huguenots scattered, some dropping weapons and surrendering, others running off into the woods to the rear of their position. Athos started shouting orders, directing the men to secure the gun powder so the Huguenots couldn’t blow it during their escape, to round up prisoners, and to find the wounded. At some point Aramis appeared at his side, a rapier in each hand and eyes flashing bright from the excitement of the fight. Porthos climbed down from the rubble pile and clapped his two friends on the shoulder. Athos sucked in air as the force sent a ripple of pain down his wounded arm, but neither man seemed to notice.

“Well that was easy,” the big man joked, “Let’s drink.”

\--Three--

Athos winced as he shrugged into his doublet, his right arm reminding him of the injury he had taken the day before. It hadn’t looked too bad, just a slender slice into his bicep and he’d had Sury douse it in wine and then wrap a bandage tightly around his upper arm. It was far from his first battle wound and Athos knew he’d just have to push through the pain as the fighting wasn’t going to stop just because of him. As he did up his buckles and holstered his weapons he was glad Aramis wasn’t around to fuss over him. The marksman’s steady hands made him a natural when it came to suturing, but Aramis seemed overly eager to take a needle and thread to him as if he was a torn shirt in constant need of mending. Finished dressing, Athos pushed open the flaps of his tent, wondering where the other two had gotten off to. They had orders to track down some of the fleeing Huguenots and Athos was ready to be off.

Outside the tent, Porthos sat hunched over on a small camp stool, forearms leaning on his thighs, his main gauche lying on the ground between his feet. He shifted his head to gaze up at Athos as he moved closer. Athos ran a critical eye over his friend.

“A rough night?” Athos asked, raising a brow.

“Nah,” Porthos answered with a slight shake of his head, “I’m right as rain.”

“Then what are you doing?” Athos asked.

“Cleaning my dagger,” Porthos answered, squinting up at him.

“Why is it on the ground?” Athos inquired, a slight smile teasing at his lips.

“Hmmm,” Porthos half grunted in reply, “Haven’t gotten around to picking it up?”

“Hmmm,” Athos answered, shifting his gaze to look around the camp, “Where’s Aramis?” 

Porthos groaned as he reached to pick up his fallen dagger. Athos flicked an eye back to his friend, catching him stiffly shifting back to a sitting position. They obviously had different opinions about what ‘right as rain’ meant.

“Over by the horses,” Porthos answered between clenched teeth. Athos looked toward the edge of camp where Porthos had indicated with a nod of his chin. Aramis had saddled all three of their horses, and had probably provisioned them as well, but now he was just standing there, gazing out over the fields, lightly dusted with powdery snow.

“How long’s he been there?” Athos asked.

“Since I started cleaning my dagger,” Porthos’s words were light but his tone held a note of concern, “He was up before dawn again.”

“I know,” Athos answered, “I heard him leave.” It was the third night in a row that Aramis had slipped from their tent. Were they near a village or farm, Athos and Porthos would have a good idea where he was going. But they were camped in an empty field and there was no midnight assignation beckoning to their libertine friend. 

“Ya think he’s alright?” Porthos asked.

“Don’t know,” Athos replied, not having any other answer to give. They both gazed back at their solitary companion for another moment, but left their thoughts on the matter unspoken. 

“Let’s get going,” Athos finally said, offering a hand to Porthos. The big musketeer gave Athos a smile and gratefully took the arm up from his low perch. Athos grimaced as Porthos’s weight pulled at his abused right arm, but Porthos didn’t seem to notice as he was groaning himself. The act of standing up seemed to take an extra effort for the fighter this morning. Keeping their aches to themselves, they joined Aramis by the horses, the marksman turning to greet them with a bright smile.

\--Four--

Athos estimated they were tracking five men who had fled from the enemy lines. Treville had sent out several parties to track down fugitives, including the elusive Huguenot leader who had been organizing the resistance to Louis’s edicts. Their path across the fields had eventually led back into the forest, and now they filed along a narrow track, the sound of their progress muffled by the layer of snow on the frozen path. The forest was brown and white around them, their blue woolen cloaks echoing the azure sky. Snow fluttered lightly through the treetops. It was cold, but not brutally so. It was quiet.

As usual for this type of mission, Athos had put Aramis on point. His keen eyesight was an enormous asset in tracking down their quarry, and his patient, sharp focus led him to trail signs that he and Porthos often missed and kept them from riding into trouble more often than not. So when the men burst from the thick underbrush along the west side of the road, one of them pulling Aramis from his horse, Athos felt a surge of disbelief and confusion, even as he moved to draw his rapier. 

Athos had little time to consider though as he too felt hands grabbing at his leg. As Athos pulled his rapier and extended his arm, his injured bicep sent fire tearing through the limb. He called out in pain but still managed to crash the pommel of his sword down on his attacker’s head. The impact sent such agony up Athos’s arm that he dropped the weapon, but the blow was forceful enough to send the attacker he hit reeling backwards. Athos took the opportunity to drop from his horse and retrieve his rapier in his left hand. He caught sight of Aramis to his right, back on his feet and fighting his opponent with sword and dagger. A howl to his left pulled his attention in the other direction where Porthos was also dismounted and struggling with two men. He slammed a meaty fist across the jaw of one, sending him to the ground, while the second man tried to take Porthos down by grabbing him around the torso. Athos knew what was coming next, Porthos would have that man up, over his head, and sailing through the air before the poor fellow really knew what had happened. 

Athos had no more attention to spare as the man he had engaged earlier came back at him, this time with rapier and dagger drawn. Blade in his left hand, Athos couldn’t easily draw his main gauche with his right, and doubted his right arm would have cooperated any way. He parried both dagger and sword with a skillful sweep of his rapier and dodged the follow-up thrust from his opponent with a duck and spin. It would have been one thing if he was fighting a bandit, but the Huguenots attacking them were experienced fighters and Athos knew that even though he was most likely the superior swordsman, he was at a distinct disadvantage fighting with only one blade and in his weaker hand. He would have to count on the Huguenot not having much experience in defending against a left-handed attacker, so he pressed hard to keep on the offensive despite his obvious disadvantage. 

Athos forced his opponent back with the ferocity of his attack, but knew he could not gain advantage until he disarmed him of at least one blade. Finally he found opportunity by letting the Huguenot slip a dagger thrust inside his guard. Athos shifted at the last moment, letting the blade skitter harmlessly against the tough leather of his doublet as the man overreached his attempt to strike Athos in the side. Athos wrapped his right arm around the man’s left, pulling him in closely and forcing the shoulder joint in a direction it was not meant go. The man yelled and dropped the dagger, raising his sword to bring down on Athos’s exposed neck. But it was the move Athos had expected and as soon as the the Huguenot raised the blade, Athos had his sword up between them, pressing into the man’s exposed throat. Blood sprayed as he collapsed to the ground, Athos releasing the man’s arm lest he be taken down with him.

As he spun free of the collapsing Huguenot, Athos turned to see Porthos grappling with another man, possibly the one he had hit across the face earlier. The big man had gotten in low and was ready to lift the smaller attacker off the ground when suddenly his legs buckled beneath him. Porthos bellowed and went down in a heap. Athos was in motion immediately, running to make it to Porthos’s side before the attacker could strike with the blade he raised above his head. The crack of a pistol echoed around the trees and the man standing over Porthos staggered backward, the sword dropping to the ground. Grabbing his shoulder, the man ran off into the woods, followed by two of his companions. Aramis reached Porthos just as Athos did, dropping the smoking pistol to the ground as he fell to his knees besides the big musketeer.

Aramis’s hands searched frantically over Porthos’s body, seeking the wound that had brought him down. Athos stood guard above them, although he doubted the men who had run off would be that willing to return with three of their number dead on the road.

“Oi, stop!” Porthos hissed, swatting away Aramis’s hands, “I’m fine.”

“You’re on the ground,” Aramis replied.

“Yeah, but not hurt,” Porthos answered, “ ‘S my leg. Just gave out.”

“Can you stand?” Aramis asked, as he looked one more time for signs of injury but found nothing to warrant landing Porthos on the ground.

“I think so,” Porthos said, “Not sure what happened.”

Athos held out his left hand to help Porthos up, keeping his right arm wrapped tightly around his torso to keep the bicep still. He got the big man to his feet, but Porthos started to falter, as if his legs just would not stay upright. Athos winced as Porthos grabbed his other arm in support. They both might have gone down had not Armais gotten to his feet and put a shoulder underneath Porthos’s arm. 

“Your arm?” Aramis asked, cocking his head toward Athos. Athos let out a deep sigh.

“From yesterday,” he said flatly, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Porthos challenged, “Then why were you fighting left-handed?”

Athos ignored the question, his eyes locking on Aramis instead. “You’re bleeding,” he said, pointing toward the trail of blood sliding down marksman’s face.

“I’m fine,” Aramis said with a thin smile, “Just encountered a boot on my way down from my horse.”

“You don’t look fine,” Porthos said, giving Aramis an assessing look up and down.

“Are we going after them?” Aramis directed his question to Athos, pointedly ignoring Porthos’s statement. Athos gave both men a critical glance, taking in Aramis’s pale face and the shuddering breathing that Porthos was trying to control. His own arm was throbbing and the thought of riding was more than he could bear.

“No, we’ll make camp,” Athos said with a disappointed shake of his head. “Seems we are not as fine as we thought.”

\--Five--

Athos winced through clenched teeth as Aramis pulled the bloody bandages away from his arm. The marksman let out a soft whistle as he surveyed the damage. “This is bad,” he said, pulling slightly at the wound and causing another hiss of pain from Athos. “Why didn’t you get this looked at?”

“I did,” Athos was curt, trying to keep the pain out of his voice, “Sury bandaged it.”

“Sury?” Aramis’s snorted, “That’s like needing to have a ring made and going to the blacksmith instead of jeweler.” Armais said nothing else as he prodded at the wound, dousing it with more wine pushing at the sliced flesh. Athos endured the marksman’s attention stoically, occasionally swigging from the bottle of wine propped on his knee to try and keep the edge off the pain. Aramis seemed to be taking his time about it and Athos wondered if this was his way of punishing him for having hidden the injury. After another long minute, Aramis sat back on his heels, wiping his hands on a clean cloth.

“It’s infected and needs stitching,” Aramis announced, “It’s not going to be pleasant,” he cautioned, “I’m going to have to try to flush out the puss before I sew it up, otherwise it will just fester. I’ll get my kit.”

Athos let out a deep sigh as Aramis moved to retrieve his surgical kit from his saddle bags. He had been sure the wound had not been that bad but he trusted Aramis and if the man said it needed stitches he was not going to argue. Even so, the marksman seemed so much more cautious than any other musketeer in the regiment. Injury was part of the job and there was no time for coddling in the middle of a battle.

“If he wasn’t a musketeer, he’d be a nursemaid,” Porthos quipped from beside him seeming to read Athos’s thoughts. The large musketeer was lying on his side on his bedroll, a blanket drawn up over his lower body, again at the insistence of the marksman. 

“More likely a tailor,” Athos said wryly in reply.

Aramis had built up a good fire hoping to keep the cold at bay as they assessed and treated their wounds. Porthos’s legs still trembled with an unnatural weakness and warmth and rest were the only cure they knew. 

“A priest,” Aramis added jovially as he returned, although his eyes remained serious, “Praying for your immortal souls.”

“Is that why ya keep sewin’ us up?” Porthos joked, “Ya can’t save our souls so yer after our bodies?”

“I sew you up,” Aramis said, settling beside Athos and laying out his gear, “as I’d prefer your company in the here and now and not in the hereafter.” Aramis finished his preparations, then cocked his head at Athos. “That shirt will have to come off,” he added, tossing Athos a blanket.

Athos considered a protest, it was just a small slice in his right bicep after all, but Aramis looked to be on the edge of anger. Tension outlined his usually friendly features and Athos realized that even if he didn’t think the wound was serious, the marksman certainly did. There was no need to start an argument that he knew he would end up losing. Athos shrugged out of his shirt, grateful for the nearby fire as the cold air stung his bare skin. He took up the blanket and draped it over his left shoulder, leaving his right arm fully exposed. 

Aramis had a bottle of spirits and several cloths at hand. “Ready?” he asked.

“Just do it,” Athos was terse. The sooner started the sooner done.

Aramis placed a hand on Athos’s bicep, using thumb and forefinger to pull back the flesh and widen the opening to the injury. Athos fought to stay still but couldn’t help but jolt when the marksman poured alcohol into the wound. Fire stabbed through the limb and if not for Aramis’s solid grip, he would have pulled his arm away. The process continued, Aramis unrelenting in cleaning the wound as deeply as possible. Athos wasn’t sure when Porthos had shifted to his side, but he was grateful when he felt a steadying hand at the back of his neck, both offering him comfort and holding him in place. Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, Aramis put down the spirits and took up a cloth to carefully dry the wound. Athos shivered, sweat coating his upper body in the late winter air. He realized his head had rolled back to rest against Porthos’s arm, but as he lay panting and exhausted from the painful ordeal, he didn’t have the energy to worry about his pride.

“That was the worst of it, mon ami,” Aramis said gently, wiping the beads of sweat from Athos’s face with a dry cloth. Athos closed his eyes and gave in to the gesture, no strength to protest. It was quiet save for the crackle of the fire and the whisper of wind through bare winter branches. Athos didn’t have to look to know Aramis was threading a needle. He felt Aramis’s hand again take hold of his arm, this time gently pressing the flesh together in a small pinch. Knowing the needle was coming, Athos stayed still, only a small reflexive flinch betraying that it caused him any pain at all. Small a reaction as it was, Porthos nonetheless tightened his grip on the swordsman, his hand warm and reassuring.

The stitching was done quickly and Aramis passed Athos the wine bottle again before gently wrapping a clean bandage around Athos’s arm. Athos took a deep swig, regaining his composure as the pain in his limb began to recede to a dull, throbbing ache. He relinquished the wine to Porthos as Aramis handed him his shirt. Athos shrugged it over his head and watched as the marksman cleaned up in silence. Something was clearly bothering him. Aramis said nothing however as he restored his kit to his saddlebags. He draped the blanket over Athos’s shoulders before settling down in front of the fire himself. 

The three of them were huddled nearly shoulder to shoulder, the fire completing their small circle. It was natural that they pressed together against the cold, but Athos felt something else was drawing them near too. In nursing their wounds, they were finding strength in each other’s proximity. It was not the first time it had happened in the past few months, but Athos realized that he no longer felt uncomfortable about it. The silence that had settled around them though, that did feel wrong. While Athos was not naturally gregarious, he had grown to enjoy the easy conversation that usually flowed between the three of them. 

Aramis finally broke the silence. 

“Why didn’t you tell us you were wounded?” he asked, his tone steady but his dark eyes unreadable.

“I thought truly it was nothing,” Athos said honestly, “If I thought it needed stitching, I would have come to you.” Aramis continued to stare at him, clearly expecting more. Athos swallowed his pride and for the sake of their deepening friendship added, “I’m sorry to have angered you.”

Aramis pursed his lips and gave a shake of his head, a sigh escaping with his exhale. Athos was confused, it did not appear that an apology was what his brother was waiting for.

“Athos, you are the finest swordsman I have ever seen, but you were no soldier before you joined the musketeers,” Aramis spoke in measured tones but Athos knew him well enough to hear the shades of frustration and anger in his voice.

“I owe you much, Aramis, but my past is my own,” Athos countered tightly, heart racing. Was he to lose his friendship over a past he refused to divulge? Aramis was asking too much of him.

The marksman pulled his hat from his head and ran a hand through his hair, the gesture revealing his discomfort. He paused a moment, tugging at his unruly curls, but when Aramis again met Athos’s eyes his gaze was soft, the brown eyes looking more sorrowed than angered. “Mon ami, I am not asking to know your history,” Aramis said gently, “I am asking you to understand mine. That in war, soldiers have nothing but the companion to our left and right. I have fought in trenches and on battlements, with pike, sword and musket and soldiering has taught me that it is not the weapons or the generals that win the battles but the men who fight side by side.” Aramis paused, tipping his head so his gaze took in Porthos as well, “I have had no better fighting companions,” he said with a smile, “and I will not lose them to their pride. If you are injured and I do not know, how can I trust you to have my back? And how can you expect me to watch yours if I do not know your limitations?”

“I don’t expect anyone to watch my back,” Athos challenged.

“And that is the problem!” Aramis stood, throwing his hands in the air and anger flaring in his voice, “You will lay down your life for us, but you will not allow us to do the same for you? You would deny us the honor of protecting our comrade? Of bringing our brother home safely? What does it mean to be Inseparable as they call us if you would throw us away so easily!”

Athos was taken aback by the marksman’s impassioned words and obvious anger. He had never considered that their relationship demand he give more than he already had. He trusted Aramis and Porthos more than any other man he’d known. He had risked his life for them, and would do so again, but he would never expect them, or anyone, that they do the same for him. His conscience told him it was his duty to protect them. The guilt over his past told him he was not worthy of their protecting him. Athos struggled to find an answer that could satisfy Aramis, well aware that if he could not, he risked losing their friendship altogether.

“Peace, brother,” Athos said softly, hands held out in supplication, “I would not have you this angry over my shortcomings. Please.” It was rare for Athos to offer up any kind of concession when faced with an emotional confrontation and he felt distinctly at a disadvantage. But he knew that meeting force with force would only serve to drive Aramis further away.

Aramis turned his back for a moment, one hand on his hip, head focused to the ground. Athos had no idea what the marksman was thinking, but hoped that he was taking a moment to rein in his anger and not considering just walking away. He spared a glance to Porthos and the trouble and sadness in the large man’s gaze gave Athos pause. Porthos certainly was as surprised at Aramis’s outburst as he had been but as their eyes met, he could see too the question in Porthos’s eyes. He too wanted to know why he was being shut out. 

Aramis let out a long exhale, then turned to squat down before them. “This is very simple,” Aramis said calmly but with sorrow in his eyes, “either we are equals or we are not. We are comrades or we are not. We are brothers, or we are not. What is good for one is good for all. What we do for one, we do for all. Your life must be worth saving as much as ours. If you cannot abide that Athos, then I do not know how we can continue.” Aramis looked as if his heart might break, but Athos could hear the resolve in his words. “Give me the honor and trust to watch your back as I have given you the honor and trust of watching mine.”

Athos fidgeted, these were not things he wanted to talk about but Aramis was giving him no choice. In his heart, he had already made a commitment to them both yet he had never thought he would be forced to speak it. He couldn’t help but think of the last time he had made a vow to honor and trust someone and how that had ended with her at the end of a noose by his own command. If he could not speak his commitment to these two men here and now, he would never be able to speak it to anyone. He would be finally and irrevocably condemning himself to a short, miserable existence that would end with him in the bottom of a wine bottle or on the wrong end of a sword. Athos took a steadying breath and raised earnest eyes to Aramis’s expectant gaze. 

“I will not argue with you about the value of my life,” Athos said slowly, carefully choosing his words, “but I promise you I will not throw it away easily.” Athos felt something shift within himself as he spoke, a mix of conflicting emotions rising from his chest. His throat tightened but he forced himself to continue, “I give you my word, on my honor, that I will share my hurts with you -- with both of you,” he amended, reaching a hand to Porthos’s shoulder, “so that you may be the brother to me that I hope to be to you. Is that acceptable?”

Athos watched Aramis carefully, hoping that what he had said was enough. The marksman held his gaze, dark eyes trying to fathom if Athos had spoken the truth. Athos had opened himself as much as he could and tried to share nothing but trust as he returned the gaze. He didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until Aramis gave him a broad grin and he exhaled in relief.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it,” Aramis joked, quickly allowing his anger to fade to friendly banter.

“That was delightfully unpleasant,” Athos quipped back, falling into the role of stoic skeptic that he knew he was expected to play in this threesome, “Let’s try not to have this discussion again.”

“Well if you stop hiding your injuries, we won’t have to,” Porthos interjected, reaching unsuccessfully to grab another log to put on their fire. He tried to push himself forward onto his knees, but groaned as his right leg gave way and he slid sideways to lean heavily on Athos.

“There is a case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Athos chided, “You rode on this mission barely able to stand.”

“Nah, hardly that bad,” Porthos answered, pushing on Athos’s shoulder to get leverage to right himself again, “Just a cramp.”

“You could barely pick up your dagger from the ground this morning,” Athos reminded him, “You should have said that you were hurting.”

“Porthos, this is not cramp,” Aramis answered, the serious tone creeping back into his voice, “this is fatigue. You knocked over a piece of heavy artillery all on your own yesterday, your muscles are overtaxed to the point of exhaustion.”

“Well, someone had to do it,” Porthos said defensively, “It wasn’t gonna fall down on its own.”

“You could have waited for help,” Athos replied, “Sury and I were nearly in the clear.” Athos shifted to be able to look his friend in the eye, “You have strong shoulders, Porthos, but they do not have to bear everything alone.” The large musketeer looked darkly at Athos, his jaw tight as he tried not to vocalize whatever was on his mind. Clearly he had touched on something Porthos did not want to talk about. Athos waited him out, his cool gaze patient but unrelenting.

“All I’ve ever had is myself to rely on,” Porthos finally said, voice gruff with emotion but eyes still locked unflinchingly on Athos, “No one’s gonna help you in the Court of Miracles, you have to help yourself. And no one’s gonna help a brown-skinned gutter rat,” he continued, eyes shining with unshed tears, “Even if you do put him in a uniform and call him a soldier.” 

Athos felt Aramis shift beside him, his need to offer comfort a palpable thing, but it was Athos who reached a hand to Porthos’s shoulder and found the words first.

“You are not just a soldier, but a musketeer,” Athos said with pride and compassion, “and I am always there to help now. We are,” Athos added, gesturing to Aramis, “The regiment is. You are our finest warrior and never, never again do you go into any battle alone. Do you hear me? Never. Leave that path in your past. It is a disservice to yourself and to your brothers.We are nothing if we cannot stand as one. Allow us to stand with you.”

Overcome with emotion, all Porthos could do was nod, placing a hand to cover the one Athos had laid on his shoulder.

“Tell me when you are hurting,” Aramis said kindly, “so that I may help heal you. I would ask that you do what you have asked of Athos. It is well past time that you learned that you belong.”

Pothos gave a small chuckle that was more of a low rumble, “Oh, I belong alright. Would never be puttin’ up with all of this” he gestured at the three of them, “in the old days. You’re makin’ me soft.”

“No,” Athos said, “You are getting strong.”

“And I am getting hungry,” Aramis said with a smile, always quick to break the tension and soothe ruffled feelings, “We should have some supper and then break camp. I’d rather sleep at a tavern than in the woods tonight.” Athos exchanged a glance with Porthos who gave him a small nod. The conversation wasn’t quite finished. Athos dropped his hand from Porthos’s shoulder and both men shifted their attention to the marksman.

“What of you, Aramis,” Athos asked softly, “Do you promise to share your wounds with us?”

“I am not hurt, mon ami,” Aramis answered lightly, “but if I am, I will tell you.I promise this.”

“Some wounds ya can’t see,” Porthos said gravely. Aramis’s eyes narrowed, his smile fading to something thin and uncertain.

“You missed sign of the ambush today,” Athos said flatly, a cool statement of fact.

“It was a surprise, anyone could have missed it,” Aramis answered, tight-lipped as his face flushed.

“Your shot during battle went wide, you hit the Huguenot in the shoulder. He got away.” Again Athos spoke matter-of-factly. 

“I cannot be expected to make every shot.” Aramis’s reply was almost a low growl.

“I would expect better from the best marksman in the regiment,” Athos said coolly.

“It is difficult to focus in the chaos of a battle,” Aramis snapped back.

“It is difficult to focus when you have not slept for the last three days,” Athos replied, “We have shared a tent for months, did you think we did not notice the restless nights?”

Aramis pressed his lips together, jaw clenched, a cloud of emotions warring in his face as anger mixed with sorrow and fear. He clearly wanted to respond, but did not seem to know what to say next. His eyes were locked on Athos, both daring him to keep speaking and begging him to stop.

Athos felt a stab of regret. He did not want to subject his friend to the pain this conversation was causing, but if they were to be truly brothers, to trust each other as Aramis had asked of them, then he too had to share his wounds. Athos pressed on.

“You are fatigued. Your mind drifts far away and your attention is not on the mission, on the battle. You put all of us at risk today,” Athos’s voice held no anger, no threat, but he spoke with a confidence of knowing his words were true, “You are suffering as surely as I am from the slice in my arm, or Porthos’s tremors in his overused legs.”

“I have your back, ‘Mis,” Porthos added quietly, “but I need to know you have mine.”

Athos watched as their words landed like blows, each statement deepening the pained look on their friend’s face. Aramis could no longer hold their gaze, and instead stared into the fire, hands clenched together as his forearms rested on his knees. The marksman was breathing heavily through his nose, but kept his mouth tightly shut, as if trying to hold something in. 

“Aramis, brother,” Athos pleaded, “Tell us.” Athos noticed the tremble in Aramis’s jaw as a tear leaked from his eye. Aramis quickly blinked, raising a hand to brush at his damp cheek and obviously fighting for control of his emotions. Athos waited, letting the marksman steady himself.

“I hear them,” Aramis said so softly that Athos and Porthos had to strain to catch his words over the crackle of the fire, “They cry out in agony, beg for my help. I hear them.” Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance, uncertain how to respond.

“Who, Aramis?” Athos asked gently, “Who calls to you?”

“The lost regiment,” Aramis answered thickly, “I hear them. Three years past and . . . they haunt me still.”

“Savoy,” Porthos breathed, “The ghosts don’t let you go?” Aramis nodded slowly in agreement.

“And you did not think to tell us?” Athos asked, “That we should know of these wounds you still carry?

“I am not fit to be called a musketeer,” he said, unable to meet their gaze.

“Aramis, no,” Athos’s voice was filled with infinite kindness, and he placed a hand on his friend’s forearm, “We do not say these things to shame you.”

“Then why make me speak of it,” Aramis’s reply was almost a sob as he turned pleading eyes to Athos, “Why force me to admit to this . . . weakness.”

“The same reason you ask me to tell you of my injuries,” Athos said with surprising tenderness and understanding, “So that we can piece you back together again. Do you think that you must do this alone just because these are wounds that we cannot see?”

“But if my mind is damaged . . .” Aramis trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

Athos could not resist a smile as he finished Aramis’s sentence, “Then you are in good company here. You think that I do not have demons that stalk me? If not for you and Porthos, I’d have followed mine off a bridge into the Seine long ago.”

“I hear my mother sometimes,” Porthos said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “Sometimes she is laughing in the distance, like if I turn the corner she will be there. At night though, then she cries . . .” the big musketeer trailed off, unwilling or unable to finish the thought.

“You do not think me mad?” Aramis asked, incredulous.

“Oh you are mad,” Athos laughed, “as mad as Porthos and I. No sane men would do what we do, risk what we risk. No one in their right mind loves as you do, or fights as Porthos does.”

“Or drinks like Athos,” Porthos added for good measure. Athos shot him a wry smile for that, but turned back to Aramis, shifting his grip from his friend’s forearm to grasp the back of his neck. 

“We have ghosts, but they can be banished. You can stitch up our bodies, we can stitch up your mind,” the heartfelt sincerity ringing clear in Athos’s voice, “But you must tell us when it is bad. When you cannot take point, Porthos will. When you cannot make the shot, I will. But we must know, we must all know it seems,” Athos said, pulling Porthos to him with an arm around his neck, “When we must do for the other. On my honor, my brothers, I will give you my weaknesses if you will give me yours.”

“On my honor,” his friends intoned, returning the grip around his shoulders. For a moment they sat there, one for all, the promise of a lifetime, until Porthos’s stomach growled loudly. Their hands fell away as they moved to break camp, the sounds of their laughter flowing into the silent forest.

**Author's Note:**

> A series of three small civil wars known as the Huguenot rebellions broke out, mainly in southwestern France, between 1621 and 1629, revolting against royal authority. The uprising occurred a decade following the death of Henry IV, a Huguenot before converting to Catholicism, who had protected Protestants through the Edict of Nantes. His successor Louis XIII, under the regency of his Italian Catholic mother Marie de' Medici, became more intolerant of Protestantism. The Huguenots respond by establishing independent political and military structures, establishing diplomatic contacts with foreign powers, and openly revolting against central power. The rebellions were implacably suppressed by the French Crown.


End file.
